“You do realise,” said George very softly, “he might not thank you for this?”
“I know.”
“People can only really help themselves.”
“Then”—I stared at my Docs, glittering cheerfully from beneath the hem of the gown—“I’m going to help him do that.”
She laughed. “I’ve never had much patience for people like him. Self-loathing is such a masturbatory vice. But I’m starting to think he might have something a little special, after all.”
“What’s that?”
Leaning over the gear stick, she kissed me—the gesture oddly chaste. “You, poppet. Now let’s go, or there’ll be no oysters left, and then I’ll be obliged to f**k someone just to pass the time.”
We left the car and crunched up a gravel drive to what I was sufficiently spoiled by high living to consider a generic Kensington mansion. A word from
